


Divergent Evolution

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: jacksepticeye
Genre: Caretaking, Crying, D/s, Domesticity, Emotional Catharasis, Fellatio, Foot Massage, Oral Sex, Other, Subspace, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-26 00:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15652350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: You've had a bad day. Henrik does what he can to help.





	Divergent Evolution

You come home tired.

It's not just... like, tired-tired.

It's a bone tired.

It's the kind of tired that burrows into your very _self_ and just stays there, like a parasitic infection. 

It's curled up at the base of your spine, and it makes all of you ache.

You don't care about anything, but you have shit you need to do, and you _know_ you need to do it. 

But you're so goddamn tired. 

You shuffle into your apartment, and you kick your shoes off, and then you're just... flopping onto your couch.

You're gross.

You _know_ you're gross - you can smell yourself. 

You were on your feet for almost eight hours, and now you're home, and your feet hurt.

Your feet hurt, your back hurts, and you're too tired to think in a straight line.

You need to worry about making dinner, you need to think about... well, you need to think about a lot of things, although the idea of it is enough to make your head start to hurt even more.

It was an... unpleasant shift.

An extremely unpleasant shift.

You don't hate your job as much as you could - you like having money to do things like pay rent or buy groceries - but goddamn.

And then someone turns on a light in the kitchen, and you nearly scream, one hand over your chest.

"Babe?"

Henrik pokes his head around the doorframe. 

"Henrik," you say, and you're breathing a little heavier. "What are you doing home?"

"I traded a shift with Zachary," says Henrik. "He wants off next week to go to his sister's party, so he took this shift for me."

"Oh," you say. 

"I thought it might be nice to, y'know, be here when you get back from work, since you're usually asleep when I get back," he says.

"Right," you say.

You're not sure what you're feeling right now.

You usually have the house to yourself when you get back to work, and you use the time to shower, to make yourself some food (you leave him leftovers), to have time to yourself.

And now he's here, and he's seeing you when you're all beat down, and....

And you start crying.

Fucking _really_?

You're kind of annoyed at yourself for this, because... fucking really?

Henrik watches you with a slightly stricken expression.

"Do you, uh... do you want to talk about it?"

He must be aware of how dumb he sounds, but for some reason that makes you cry harder, as you lean forward, your elbows on your knees, your face in your hands.

You're ugly crying - the kind of ugly crying that they usually don't show on television, the kind of ugly crying that makes you hiccup and sniffle, the kind of ugly crying that's just... well, gross.

And then he's walking closer to you, and he's putting a hand on the back of your head, his fingertips gentle on the back of your neck. 

"Shhh," he says, and you're crying into his stomach, clutching at his shirt.

He's not in his scrubs - he's just wearing a pair of lounge pants and a t-shirt, and he's rocking you, gently, making soothing noises.

You keep crying, which isn't helping much, but you can't seem to stop, as you shake, still clutching at him.

"You had a rough shift, huh?"

His voice is sympathetic.

You nod into his stomach.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice calm, sweet. "It can be hard sometimes, huh?"

You nod again.

"What can I do to help?"

You shrug.

"Have you eaten yet?"

You shake your head.

"What do you want to eat?"

Another shrug.

"How about we order something in? We can be a bit indulgent."

You sniffle, and you look up at him, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand.

He looks down at you, and he gives you a grin.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," you say, and your voice is rough, your nose all stuffy.

"Feel better?"

"I dunno yet."

"How about we get some food, then you can see how you feel?"

"We should eat the leftovers," you mumble, and your face is in his belly again.

"We're gonna have them tomorrow anyway," he says. "C'mon. Let's indulge a little bit."

You sigh, as he rubs along your neck, and his finger gently traces along your hairline.

You shiver, goosebumps rising along your back, between your shoulder blades, and you make a face.

"I smell horrible," you tell him.

"You're not too bad," he says.

You can't tell if he's telling the truth or if he's just very good at lying.

You make eye contact, and you manage to raise an eyebrow at him.

He raises one back, and for a moment you look like a pair of Spock impersonators, minus the bowl cut, the pointy ears....

Then you burst out laughing, because this is just so goddamn ridiculous, and he's grinning down at you, cupping your cheek and thumbing your cheekbone.

"It's okay," he says. "I know that some days are just intense."

"Right," you say, and you sigh, leaning into him.

He pats you on the head, and then he leans down and kisses the top of it. "What would you like to order?"

"You can't go wrong with pizza," you say, and you sigh, standing up slowly.

All of you aches. 

You don't know why today is particularly bad, but, well... it is.

Most of you hurts, and most of you is just _tired_ , tired in ways that you didn't know you could feel, except you just want to lie down and maybe have your joints turn into something like bubblegum.

Although that'd probably be bad for you.

"Henrik?"

"Mmm?"

He's going into the living room, to get his laptop and order the pizza. 

"What would happen if your joints were made of bubblegum?"

"It'd be pretty gross," said Henrik. 

You snort.

"Well, yes, of course it'd be gross, but what else?"

"It'd be very sticky," he says. 

"Isn't the stuff in your joints already sticky?"

"Not really, no," says Henrik. "It's viscous."

He's on the couch, his laptop in his lap. 

You shudder, and you sit next to him.

Thinking about that is... weirdly uncomfortable.

"So," he says, "what would you like on your pizza?" 

“I don’t fuckin’ care,” you mumble, burying uyour face into his shoulder, as he wraps an arm around your shoulders.

He’s good at typing one handed - it’s one of those things about him that you’ve always admired.

“No? What about octopus and pineapple?”

You pause, and then you sit up enough to give him a Look.

He’s smirking, the jerk.

You poke him in the side.

He raises an eyebrow.

You stick your tongue out at him.

He kisses you, a quick peck on the mouth, and you kiss him back.

“You’re a fuckin’ weirdo,” you tell him.

“Why do you say that?”

He’s adding stuff to the pizza, his attention on the screen.

“Because you’re dating me,” you tell him.

He snorts.

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” he says, and he’s got a slightly scolding tone of voice on now. “You’re a great person.”

You roll your eyes, and he tugs on your hair, making you make eye contact.

“I mean it,” he scolds.

“Mean what?”

“You’re great,” he says. “I don’t want you saying mean stuff about yourself.”

“Sorry,” you say, although you don’t really mean it.

He rolls his eyes. 

“Do you want to get anything else?”

“Garlic knots?”

“Good choice,” he says, and he adds that to the order. “Anything else?”

“Nah,” you say, and you’re practically burrowing into his side now. 

You know you stink, know you’re sweaty and gross, but you don’t want to move.

You don’t want to stop cuddling up to him, even though he probably isn’t enjoying the smell.

Oh well.

“It’ll be here in about forty five minutes,” he says, and he kisses your temple.

In fairness, he’s not complaining about how bad you smell, and he’s the one you’d really care about in this scenario.

“How as work?”

He sounds like he’s trying to sound too casual, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Oh, Henrik.

“It was fine,” you tell him, which is true.

You don’t like your job very much, but you don’t hate it either.

It could always be worse, after all.

You try to remember that, when you’re trudging home, a blister on the back of your heel, your head pounding like someone has been beating it with a hammer.

But goddamn is it good to be home.

… you’ll admit, it’s kind of nice not to have to think about getting dinner ready either.

You’re going to have to take a shower, although you should probably take a shower before you eat dinner.

Although then again, your hand eye coordination isn’t the best, and you tend to get stuff messy anyway.

Hmm.

“You’re in your head,” Henrik says, and he taps you on the forehead.

“Sorry,” you say, and you blink up at him, your expression sheepish.

He pushes his glasses up his nose - you always love when he wears his glasses, they just… suit him, so well.

“It’s fine,” he says, and then he gives you a thoughtful look. “Want a foot massage?”

“What, an actual foot massage?”

The idea sounds like a good idea, admittedly - with your aching feet and your sore back, any kind of massage would be something like heaven.

“I can give you a full body massage, after we eat dinner,” he says.

“Yeah? If it’s not too much trouble, I mean.”

“I wouldn’t have offered it if I found it to be too much trouble,” he tells you, in a slightly scolding tone of voice.

You’re blushing, just a bit.

“Right,” you mumble.

“Exactly,” he says, and then he leans down and kisses your forehead.

You sigh, leaning further into him, until he nudges you in the side.

“You need to give me your feet in order for me to rub them,” he reminds you.

“I can’t just give you my feet,” you tell him, your tone serious even as you sit up, shifting back so that you can lean back against it, your head on the arm of the couch, your feet in his lap.

He squeezes one of your toes, and you sigh, curling your toes around his fingers. 

“Why not?”

He peels your socks off, and he doesn’t even wrinkle his nose, even though your feet probably smell horrible.

“Because I need them,” you tell him. “What am I supposed to do, if I don’t have any feet?”

“There are plenty of people without feet who do plenty of things,” Henrik says, and his tone is downright serene as he begins to knead at your feet, his fingertips digging into the soles of your feet, his thumbs pressing into the tops of your feet.

You groan, and you’re pressing your hands into your feet, because it _hurts_.

It hurts in a good way, admittedly, but it’s still… it’s painful.

You’re squirming, trying not to make too much noise, because it hurts, it hurts a lot more than it should, but then again, feet aren’t really made to be stood on for that long, are they?

“Hey, Henrik?”

“Mm?”

“How long are we made to stand up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like… I see reports saying that people shouldn’t sit down for too long, but I also see people saying you shouldn’t stand up for too long either. What are we made for?”

“Well,” he says, as his strong fingers work your feet over, carefully but still with force, “we’re not really _made_ to do anything. We just… do it.”

“Hmm?”

“Evolution,” Henrik says, in a voice that has the beginnings of lecture in it, “is all about what works at the time. Not specifically towards a greater good, but towards something that gives you some kind of advantage over everyone else.”

You let your eyes drift shut, letting his talk wash over you.

People make fun of his accent, but it’s downright comforting, when he’s on a tangent.

Admittedly, part of that might be related to the fact that he’s talking to you in the first place.

You like it when he talks to you.

After eight hours of having to deal with people, it’s nice to just listen to someone.

“So,” Henrik says, continuing on his tangent, “in theory, if we keep up the way we’re doing, we may end up with some kind of divergent evolution.”

“Mm?”

“Because,” he says, “there are people who have to spend all of their time on their feet, and there are people who have to spend all of their time sitting down. So, it stands to reason, if we keep up like this, we might end up with some variations on people.”

“You mean, like… what do you call it. Those moths that ended up evolving the different colors in the Soviet Union?”

You yawn, and your jaw clicks.

He grins at you, delighted - he always gets excited when you know the same kind of weird shit that he does.

You’ve taken to reading stuff, just so you can bring that same delighted grin onto his face.

… fuck but you’ve got it bad.

You smile back at him anyway, because he’s clearly so happy with you.

You wiggle your toes, and he slides his fingers between them, stroking them gently. You sigh, and he rubs your legs, sliding his hand up your ugly, gross work pants.

“Your muscles feel like wooden planks,” he says, in a concerned tone of voice. “You need to relax more.”

You make a face at him.

“It’s all well and good to say that I need to relax more,” you tell him, “but that doesn’t mean that I can actually, y’know, do it on cue.”

He snorts.

“So if I’m going to end up parting of the standing all the time part of the species, where does that leave doctors like you?”

“We’ll end up as a middle form,” he says, in the tone of obvious knowledge.

You snort.

“How do you know so much about evolutionary biology? You’re a doctor.”

“A man can’t have a hobby?”

He looks so overly offended (it’s obviously an act, but still) that you start laughing, and that gets him laughing as well.

It’s one of the many things you adore about him.

You can both make each other laugh, so easily.

He sighs, and he gives your foot another squeeze, then goes to the next one. 

“We should get you some better insoles for your shoes, at least,” he says, and his tone is sympathetic..

“It’s “we” now?”

He raises an eyebrow at you, and you blush, looking away.

“No,” he says, “give me your eyes.”

So you make eye contact, and you’re blushing so hard that your face is on fire.

Oh god. 

Sometimes, he just… does that.

He gets all dominant, in that way that always gets you so worked up.

He knows all the buttons to push in your head. 

You stroke along his belly with the foot that he’s not holding on to, and he shudders, licking his lips.

Admittedly, you know all of his buttons too, so it just about evens out.

“The two of us are a regular piano, aren’t we?”

“... what?”

He looks at you, slightly confused.

“Maybe not a piano. Maybe something else with a bunch of buttons. A calculator?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Henrik says.

“Neither do I, so it’s all good,” you tell him.

He snorts, and he leans over you, bending your knee to give himself some more space, and he kisses you.

You kiss him back, your fingers going to his hair - it’s brown now, although you miss the green.

It’s soft and silky under your fingers, and you twist it between your fingers, gently, as he sighs against your mouth.

You sigh against his, and he presses closer, so that you’re chest to chest.

It’s funny - you’re still exhausted, down to your very bones, but it’s still… it’s still nice, to be held like this.

His body weight is heavy, and it weighs you down, anchors you down to the bed.

You let his tongue into your mouth, even though your mouth is dry, your breath is no doubt rank, but he’s moaning against you, already hard against your thigh.

You lose yourself in the kissing - in his hands in your hair, on your face, on your hips, your back. 

You slide your tongue along his, and you trace the blunt familiarity of his teeth.

He tastes like himself, and like whatever it was he was nibbling before you got here.

Something salty, it seems like.

And then there’s a knock on the door, and the two of you pull apart, almost like guilty teenagers.

“Fuck,” he says, and his voice cracks.

He’s blushing, and he looks utterly debauched, with his hair mussed, his lips swollen.

“Sorry,” you say, although you’re not.

You aren’t much better than he is right now, your cheeks hot, your chest heaving.

God, but he’s a good kisser.

He always knows how to make your toes curl, when the mood hits him.

You’re still sprawled out on the couch, when he comes back with two pizza boxes - garlic knots and the pizza.

“You want to watch a movie while we eat dinner?”

“Sounds like a good plan,” you say, still dazed.

“That means you’re going to have to get up,” he tells you.

“Oh,” you say, and you clear your throat, self conscious. “Right. Sorry.”

He looks nothing so much as amused, and he nudges you with one foot, since he can’t really pat you on the head, when his hands are as full as they are.

“You’re adorable,” he tells you, as you sit up, slowly, achingly. 

You lean back against the couch, and you stretch, a long, luxurious stretch, both arms over your head, your back crackling like someone tap dancing over a bag of potato chips.

You catch him looking at you, and you blush again, a little harder.

It’s… it’s nice, to be admired like that.

It’s nice to know that you’re wanted, even if it’s on a purely physical level.

You know he doesn’t just want you for your body, but seeing as how you’re currently… inhabiting your body, it’s nice to have it appreciated.

He sets the pizza boxes down onto the table, then the garlic knots, and then he’s going to the kitchen to get you both drinks.

You open the pizza up, and then he’s back, with plates for both of you and glasses of juice.

“That one YouTube show you liked updated,” he tells you, “If you wanna watch that?”

“Did it?”

“Oh yeah,” he says, and he smiles at you, a little sheepish. “I knew that today was going to be a hard day, since you said that one supervisor you don’t like was going to be on.”

“Right,” you say, and you smile at him again, gratitude brimming out of you like an overflowing cup.

How did you get so lucky?

* * *

You eat pizza.

You eat pizza, and you watch your show, your knee pressed against his as the two of you enjoy the companionship.

It’s warm, comfortable, and he’s just… he’s your person.

Sometimes you forget that, when you’re lost in your own craziness, in your own stupid worries.

When you’ve both eaten your fill and the show is over, he looks over at you, his expression almost expectant.

“How are you feeling?”

“Are you still interested in the massage?”

“Sure,” you say, “if you’re up for it.”

“I wouldn’t have offered it -”

“If you didn’t want to do it,” you say, and you grin at him, a little sheepish.

He grins back at you.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, and he reaches over, patting you on the head.

His hand is kind of greasy, but you can live with it.

You lean in to the affection.

“How about I give you a nice massage, then you can take a nice bath?”

“Don’t you want me to take a shower before you give me a massage?”

“Nah,” he says. “We can take a nice bath afterwards.”

“Right,” you say.

The new bath that fits both of you is a new thing, but you’re not gonna complain too hard.

You love the closeness of it, the intimacy.

You get up, and okay, so you’re kind of sore, but you know that he can help with that.

You stretch, and you make your way towards the bedroom, your eyes half shut.

You’re already pretty fucking tired, and more than a bit comfortable, truth be told.

It’s weird - just being with him makes you feel calmer.

Although the way he was all… commanding sent a little thrill of arousal through you, which you’re still feeling, to a certain extent. 

It’s a little simmer, instead of a full on roiling boil, but… well, things heat up. 

You glance over your shoulder, and you catch him looking at you.

… oh yeah.

Things _definitely_ heat up.

* * *

"You're going to have to take your clothes off," Henrik says, and his tone is slightly lecherous.

"You sure this is all out of the goodness of your heart?"

"Oh yes," he says. "It is in the very spirit of altruism that I want you to get naked, so I can make you stop aching."

"It's a good thing I've got the day off tomorrow," you say lightly, as you pull your shirt off, then your pants.

Next go all your undergarments again, until you're completely naked, not even wearing your socks.

... because your socks are left in the living room.

You yawn, and you stretch again, then flop out onto the bed, belly down, your face in the pillow.

He makes a soothing noise, and his eyes are practically tangible on your back, raising up goosebumps.

He's staring at your ass, he's staring at your back, and you're drinking in the sensation of being looked at, of being wanted.

You sigh, as you hear a wet sound, and then he's... what is he doing?

You look over your shoulder, and see that he's rubbing lotion onto his hands.

Oh.

Yeah, that would make sense.

Then he's sitting on your lower thighs, and he's leaning over, beginning to dig his thumbs into your lower back.

You make an embarrassing noise, thrashing under him, and he presses down again.

"You've got huge knots here," he says.

You make a vague apologetic noise, and you try to stay still.

It is incredibly hard.

His thumbs are downright _bony_ , and they are digging into something sensitive, something that is making pain shoot up your back, and you're sobbing, trying to keep yourself more or less still.

Ow.

"I should do this more often," he says, and he's moving up your back, still working with his thumbs.

You groan, but you make a vaguely affirmative noise.

This is sending you into some kind of headspace - one that you're not sure your can put your finger on, except it's possibly sub space.

God, but it feels good.

It feels good, but it also hurts, and the combination of it is enough to make your whole body begin to tense up.

"Shh," says Henrik, and he begins to rub your back again, a little hard, using his knuckles this time. "Shhh, relax."

You whine, in the back of your throat, and you're grinding your hips.

You're faintly aware of it.

"How's that?"

"It hurts," you tell him. "But not in a bad way."

"You want me to keep at it?"

"Yes, please," you say, and you'd be embarrassed by how needy you sound, but you've given up on any kind of shame at this point.

"I'm going to go for the tender spots around your shoulders," he warns.

"Do it," you say, and maybe your voice is a bit rough, but... well, fuck it.

Bring it on.

"I did warn you," Henrik says, although he sounds amused.

You snort, and you stretch, your toes curling, and then... oh fuck, he's digging his thumbs into your shoulders, and it's painful, it's a kind of painful that's almost impossible to bear.

And then it's not.

Just like that.

Just like that, he's doing... something with his fingers, and you don't know what it is, exactly, but now you're melting straight into the mattress, your eyes sliding shut.

God, that feels good.

He's kneading the tension out of your back, and that's just... better than it has a right to be.

He digs his fingers into the back of your neck, and you sigh, a long, deep sigh, beginning to finally _really_ relax into the bed.

"You keep too much tension in your back," he tells you.

"Sorry," you mumble, although you don't really mean it.

"Eh, don't apologize for being wound too tight," he says. "Just let me... unwind you."

His hand slides down, and then he's squeezing your ass.

You shiver, a long, drawn out shiver, and then he's leaning forward, and when did he take his shirt off?

His bare chest is against your bare back, and you can feel his chest hair.

It's almost itchy.

But he's kissing the back of your neck, and you let the shivers take over, your toes digging into the mattress as your eyes practically roll back in their sockets.

You're... you're more than a little worked out.

Wow.

How can you have switched from exhausted and in pain to horny enough to want... well, everything?

Go figure, huh?

"I think you're relaxed," he says, after some intermittent point in time, when he's been rubbing your back enough to make you want to start sobbing, because goddamn does that feel good. 

"Yeah?"

You'd be half tempted to fall asleep, but for the arousal that's pooling up in the pit of your belly. 

"Oh yeah," he says. "Time for your bath."

He pats your haunch, and you sigh, almost regretfully, as he sits up.

Goddamn, but that was comfy.

Oh well.

You've got a giant bath you can take with him. 

That'll be nice, right?

* * *

You're sprawled out in the bath, leg to leg, when he leans in.

"I want to make you cum with my mouth," Henrik says, and his tone is so... straightforward that you blush, just a little bit.

There isn't any bubble bath or anything like that in the bathtub, because Henrik is against that type of thing - he says it's bad for various mucus membranes.

But he's coming up between your legs, and his hands are between your thighs, spreading them.

"Yes, Sir," you tell him, your tone earnest.

He raises an eyebrow, and then he's grinning.

"So that's what kinda day you want it to be, huh?"

You nod, blushing.

"Good pet," he says, and then he's... reaching down, and his hands are on your ass, holding him closer to his face.

He leans forward, and he begins to kiss along your inner thighs.

It's faintly uncomfortable, but you're almost liquid, from all of the kneading and rubbing that he was doing earlier.

And when he begins to kiss along your inner thighs, your toes are curling against his hips.

When his lips find that one spot, the spot that always makes your eyes roll back in your head... well, he's grinning against you, beginning to stroke you with his fingers as well.

You roll your hips up to meet his mouth, carefully, because you don't want to slop too much water over the sides, and he keeps kissing you, then licking, then sucking.

God, he's... he's very good with his mouth.

You don't know why it always comes across as such a surprise, considering all the work he puts into being good at things - he studies things until he's perfected them, and then he does them, but... oh god.

You're gibbering, chasing your own tail inside of your own head.

He's moving his head now, doing things with his jaw, with his tongue, and your hands are on the back of your own head, digging into your scalp, and you're shaking.

You're full on shaking, your knees going stiff, because you're going to cum in an embarrassingly short amount of time.

How are you going to cum so quickly?

Usually you're better about this, but... fuck.

Fuck, fuck, you just ride it, let the pleasure crest, let it overtake you, until you're cumming, and he's just... licking it up, taking it, and when he looks up at you, with his sticky face and swollen lips, he's smirking.

"Good?"

You nod, dumbfounded.

He gestures you closer, and then he kisses you, and you can taste your orgasm on his lips, as his tongue swipes across your own.

"Are you going to return the favor?"

He indicates his cock, the head of it already standing up above the water.

You pause, looking down at his cock, then up at his face.

You lick your lips.

"Can you tell me to do it, please?"

"Please, who?"

"Please, Sir," you say, and you try to fight off the Oliver Twist image that is trying to escape your head, because _no_ , this is not the time for it.

"Very good," he says, and then his hand is on the back of your head, guiding you down onto his cock.

You take it into your mouth.

You take it into your mouth, your lips around it, and you suck, your tongue tracing along his foreskin, then sliding under it, just a bit.

He shudders, and you begin to bob your head, just a bit.

The water is covering your ears, your nose, and it's an odd sensation - when you come up for air, his cock is still on your lower lip, and you suck it a little harder, aware that you're drooling, although it's all mixing in with the bath water.

You wrap your whole mouth around him, and you take him all the way to the root, twitching your tongue along the underside, swallowing around it, your nose against his belly.

He shudders, and you can hear him moaning, faintly, from around the water in your ears.

You'd grin, if your mouth wasn't full.

It's always nice to get him worked up, since he usually does such a good job of holding it together.

More or less.

You begin to bob your head, catching little gasps of air when you're above the water.

He keeps his hands on your head, and then his hips are making their way up to meet your mouth, and as you bob your head, he begins to throb in your mouth.

"I'm gonna cum," he says, and you lavish attention to the head of his cock, and then... he's cumming in your mouth.

You pull back, sputtering, and he looks at you, faintly sheepish.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Why?”

“Well,” he says, “I usually… don’t… um.”

And now he looks embarrassed.

He’s adorable.

You lean in, and you kiss him.

“Thank you,” you say to him, and he grins at you.

“Of course,” he says, and he cups your cheek.

You kiss his palm, and the tiredness - at least some of it - finally seeps out of your bones.

**Author's Note:**

> Like this fic?
> 
> Want me to write you something like it, or something completely different?
> 
> Come talk to me on my tumblr, theseusinthemaze.tumblr.com!


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